“Not in that way!” she said scornfully, “Is it possible that you can be so conceited!  A woman says she is dull and bored, and straightway the nearest man imagines his uncouth caresses will amuse her!  Tiens tiens!  When will you understand that all women are not like Pon-Pon?”

Varillo drew back, chafed and sullen.  His Amour PROPRE was wounded, and he began to feel exceedingly cross.  The pretty laugh of Sylvie rang out like a little peal of bells.

“Suppose Angela knew that you wished to ‘amuse’ me in that particularly unamusing way?” she went on, “You—­who, to her, are Chevalier sans peur et sans reproche!”

“Angela is different to all other women,” said Varillo quickly, with a kind of nervous irritation in his manner as he spoke, “and she has to be humoured accordingly.  She is extremely fantastic—­full of strange ideas and unnatural conceptions of life.  Her temperament is studious and dreamy—­self-absorbed too at times—­and she is absolutely passionless.  That is why she will make a model wife.”

The Comtesse drew her breath quickly,—­her blood began to tingle and her heart to beat—­but she repressed these feelings and said,

“You mean that her passionless nature will be her safety in all temptation?”

“Exactly!” and Varillo, smiling, became good natured again—­“For Angela to be untrue would be a grotesque impossibility!  She has no idea of the stronger sentiment of love which strikes the heart like a lightning flash and consumes it.  Her powers of affection are intellectually and evenly balanced,—­and she could not be otherwise than faithful because her whole nature is opposed to infidelity.  But it is not a nature which, being tempted, overcomes—­inasmuch as there is no temptation which is attractive to her!”

“You think so?” and a sparkle of satire danced in Sylvie’s bright eyes, “Really?  And because she is self-respecting and proud, you would almost make her out to be sexless?—­not a woman at all,—­ without heart?—­without passion?  Then you do not love her!”

“She is the dearest creature to me in all the world!” declared Florian, with emotional ardour, “There is no one at all like her!  Even her beauty, which comes and goes with her mood, is to an artist’s eye like mine, exquisite,—­and more dazzling to the senses than the stereotyped calm of admitted perfection in form and feature.  But, cara contessa, I am something of an analyst in character—­and I know that the delicacy of Angela’s charm lies in that extraordinary tranquillity of soul, which, (you suggested the word!) may indeed be almost termed sexless.  She is purer than snow—­ and very much colder.”

“You are fortunate to be the only man selected to melt that coldness,” said Sylvie with a touch of disdain, “Myself, I think you make a great mistake in calling Angela passionless.  She is all passion—­and ardour—­but it is kept down,—­held firmly within bounds, and devoutly consecrated to you.  Pardon me, if I say that you should be more grateful for the love and trust she gives you.  You are not without rivals in the field.”